


it's like poetry

by Hierophantastic



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Grief, Just some thoughts on parallells, No Plot/Plotless, Poetry, Self-Sacrifice, Slavery, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, The Star Wars univers is just tragedy after tragedy, Updating tags as I go, and music lyrics that i like, people and their relationships with each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hierophantastic/pseuds/Hierophantastic
Summary: There's a movement to our stillness,and however much we move,we're bound to stand completely still!~Goodbye, I! by mewithoutYouThere's a boy in the desert who tinkers with machines that aren't his, under a roof that isn't his, with hands that aren't his.He wasn't the start of it all. Merely the variation on a theme.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. freedom (and lack thereof)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War, genocide, empires, planet-killers.
> 
> Does any of that matter if you're not even Master of your own body?

Anakin was quiet as he worked on the protocol droid. Watto had bought it from an ugnaught, handing it over to Anakin for fixing. He would probably take it back as soon as Anakin was done with it to sell it, but for now the boy was simply happy the toydorian let him tinker at all.

Anakin flipped a switch to test its voice box and the droid stirred.

"Greetings, Master, I am-"

Anakin shut it off quickly. 

_Greetings, Master._

It echoed in his head, but he wasn't- he wasn't like that. He was a slave, not a Master. He was a person. He would never do something like that to anyone.

(If he could, he would free all the slaves. But he couldn't, and the only freedom the desert offered to a slave was death, whether by explosion, sandstorm, dehydration, or a dozen other ways.

And even that choice was already made for them by the Masters, most of the time.)

Anakin focused on the droid's software. He wasn't as good with it as hardware, but he could learn.

Maker sounded a lot better than Master, anyway.

* * *

Uncle Owen said his father had been the pilot on a spice freighter. Maybe some people would think it mundane, but Luke thought it was a dreamjob.

Traveling the Galaxy _and getting paid for it?_ That was a win-win, in his eyes.

But there was also the matter of his father's name. Luke knew Skywalker was a slave-name, yet he wasn't ashamed to carry it. It was a wish, Aunt Beru had said, that the slaves might one day walk freely through the skies where no Master could catch them. His father had achieved that wish, and Luke found pride in that.

Luke was very good in finding pride, or kindness, or goodness in anything, really. That didn't mean he was blind to all the wrongs in the world.

"Uncle Owen," he asks as his uncle and he cross the market. "Why do people have slaves? Don't they understand it's wrong?"

Uncle Owen follows his gaze, and it comes to rest on a dark-haired man in rags, cleaning up a stall as its owner was chatting up passer-by's.

"Some people are cruel, and enjoy the feeling of power. Others simply think they're better, or think it's easier, considering nobody is putting a stop to the whole thing." Luke frowns.

"But why? Shouldn't people help each other?" he asks, frustrated. At that, Uncle Owen laughs, but it doesn't sound very happy.

"Your grandmother did always say the Galaxy would be a better place if everyone helped each other. But people are often selfish, and you can't always blame them for that. Can you promise me something, Luke?"

Luke looks at his uncle, who's staring down at him. Of course Luke can. Especially if it has to do with Grandmother. Uncle Owen always said she was a very wise woman.

"Promise me that you'll never treat a person as if they're less than that. They could be the vilest, most evil characters in the Galaxy, and you're allowed to hate their guts, but they're still people, Luke.

"Remember that, please, or you'd be no better than a slaver."

Luke doesn't really understand what his uncle is asking, but he nods.

People are people, always. He understands that much.

* * *

Rey is a survivor.

She scraps old ships, hauls junk across the sands, all for her daily meal. She lives in a broken-down AT-AT to protect her from the scorching heat and searing sandstorms.

She's not alone.

Her family will come back for her. She just needs to wait. They'll come back.

She isn't a slave.

She knows how to fly. She knows how to fight. She passes by the landing area and thinks she could probably sneak on a ship and get off this planet.

"Move aside, slave-girl," says the trader who was walking towards Plutt before stumbling into her.

Rey isn't a slave. She doesn't have a chip. She could stop working. She could escape. But she has to wait, for now.

"This is my find, slave-girl." The scrapper hoards his find, a fallen AT-ST, jealously.

Rey isn't a slave. She has a choice. She could escape. She could stop working (eating, living). She just needs to wait a few more weeks.

"Watch your step, slave-girl."

A few more months. There's only so much scrap on this planet.

"Line's moving, slave-girl."

A few more years. Plutt lowered her rations again.

"Quit day-dreaming, sla-"

Rey isn't a slave. She punches the other scrapper in the throat, and the resulting skirmish gets her banned from Plutt's booth for three days. She only has a three-quarter ration.

"Back again, slave-girl?"

Rey isn't a slave, but she keeps her head down. She just has to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was depressing


	2. the night was mighty dark for you could hardly see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's grief and guilt and shame and sadness.
> 
> Why were you the one to survive, you wonder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Shine On - Bonus Track by the Blasting Company

Kanan Jarrus, Jedi Knight, sits in a field and meditates.

The Force is peaceful on Lothal. He can hear the grass whisper in the wind, their life essence much like a vast ocean. A lothcat stalks in the shadows, his eye on a tasty-looking lizard. Bugs crawl through the dirt. Even the planet itself seems to thrum with life.

It's peaceful. Yet, it misses something.

Kanan doesn't remember much of the temple from before the war. His memories of that time are foggy, pushed away by explosions, lasers, and death. But he remembers the feeling of living in a building _filled_ with Force-sensitives with their signatures bright as stars and some, like Master Yoda or Knight Skywalker, rivalling the Coruscant sun.

He remembers light. He misses it.

Kanan focuses. A distance away, he can sense his crew. Hera is looking over Star charts, her aura of fierce determination is mixed with worry. He knows she worries for their crew- _their family._ He does too. Zeb seems to be messing with Chopper. There's cheer bouncing of off his signature. Sabine is calm and focused, the way she is whenever she's working on a new art piece. Kanan wonders what she'll come up with this time.

He wonders what Master Billaba would have thought of them.

Ezra is behind him. "Hey," his padawan says. "You doing okay?"

Kanan takes a moment to bask in Ezra's light. The boy is not amazingly strong in the Force, like the old Jedi Masters, but he could be, one day. He will be. For now, his signature is still soft and dim, yet it outshines those of the others.

"My master," he answers the boy, "and my old home." Ezra kneels down beside him and raises an eyebrow as a sign for his teacher to continue. Kanan does.

"Master Billaba was Mace Windu's padawan. He was one of the best duelists in the Order. She was a great teacher. I learned a lot from her." Kanan sighs. There are no tears, but only because the grief was years old already. There wasn't a day where he didn't feel it and he could hardly spend his entire life crying. That doesn't make it easier. "There's a lot I never got to tell her, things I wanted to Tell her."

Ezra's presence is comforting. "You can tell me," the boy says, always ready to help those he cares about. So Kanan does, even though he knows he'll feel bad about having his student shoulder his emotional burdens later.

"Jedi don't really have family. Attachment was forbidden. But I- I miss her, Ezra." It doesn't feel like those words are sufficent. Now that he's talking about it, he does start to feel tears prick at his eyes. "I don't know what it's like with you and your parents, but I like to think it's like that. That we were more than a master and a student, and I miss her and- it hurts, sometimes more than others. I miss my home."

Ezra is quiet as he sits beside his master. He's quiet as the tears start trailing down, and he's quiet when they finally stop.

Eventually, he speaks, with a voice as lost as Kanan feels. "I don't know how to help," he says. "It won't ever go away, will it?"

"No," Kanan admits.

They stay and watch the sun go down.

* * *

Every Jedi worth anything has, at one time in their life, been tempted by the Dark, Yoda believes.

Mastery of the Force is not something that can be achieved purely by study. You need experience, knowledge, wisdom. You can't call yourself a master without having ever faced adversity. This rule does not exclude Yoda himself. He has faced the Darkness within himself, which he was too afraid to confront at first. He faced it, and rejected it, rooting himself firmly in the Light.

However, his years on Dagobah prove to be a much greater struggle than a shadow creature spawned by his own mind. One of the reasons he chose to hide here was the strong Dark Force-presence that covered the entire planet, hiding his signature from the Sith's prying eyes. There are places on the planet even the ex-Grandmaster himself is wary to set foot in. Yet the true problem proves to be his own thoughts.

In those first days of his exile, when meditating, he would spread his consciousness out over the Galaxy. Seeking, searching, hoping. Sometimes, he even found what he was looking for.

There would be a bright speck of light, a tiny star, and Yoda would hope. He couldn't get into contact with them, not without alerting the Sith who was no doubt watching back then. He could watch, though. He could hope.

And he would watch, until one morning, when he went searching for that speck of light, and he couldn't find them again.

_Save them, I could not._

There would be another, and they would disappear, and there would be another, and they would disappear. The stars were dying. Yoda was afraid that one day he would wake up and look, and look, and look, and found only Darkness.

Yoda is afraid.

_My fault._

There had been younglings in the temple he couldn't protect. There were younglings all over the Galaxy, who he couldn't protect.

_Failed, I have._

He could sense Master Kenobi at first, bt now his presence was gone. Did he hide his presence? Or did he...

Is Yoda the last one?

_No. Still Jedi, there are. But few. So few. Yet rebuild, we can. One day._

Yoda clings to those last specks of light. Tatooine. Alderaan. Others move around. Bracca. Lothal. Ships, traveling the stars, carrying with them Yoda's last specks of hope. Yoda doesn't know what he might do if he loses them.

But he hasn't failed them all. Not yet. 

* * *

Ben Kenobi has his bad days. Ben Kenobi has his less bad days. And Ben Kenobi had his good days.

On the first ones, he wakes up. He doesn't move for a time, feeling as if the weight of the Galaxy is pressing down on him, the weight of ten thousand dead Jedi, the men, the women, the children. He feels as if the Jedi Temple, _his home,_ is burning, broken, full of soldiers. His friends were forced to shoot their own friends, people they respected. His apprentice murdered those he swore to protect. When he does move, it's slow-going, the desert heat burning his skin because he's simply too tired to pull up his hood. Or maybe because he deserves it.

Ben knows it's his fault Anakin Fell and destroyed everything. He doesn't lie to himself on those days.

On his less bad days, he does lie. He screams and rages, and puts on a calm face when Beru or Owen or Luke are near. He doesn't really interact with anyone else. He smiles at Luke and tells him stories, accepts Beru's tea with a polite thank-you, and sits staring at the wall, sipping his tea while continuing his rant in his head, until Owen chases him off again.

He blames everything on Palpatine, or the Council, or one time, when he was feeling particularly viscious, on Anakin. He calls him Vader, because his brother is dead. Sometimes, he just says Darth, because Darth could be any Sith.

Darth didn't need four mechanical limbs because the man who was supposed to help him dismembered him. Darth didn't need a breathing apparatus because Ben left him to burn to death, too cowardly to even give his brother the mercy of a quick death. Darth wasn't anyone with any history pertaining to Obi-Wan Kenobi. All Darth was was a Sith with a red saber and evil in his veins.

Ben finds Darth easy to blame.

Ben's good days are in the past and it hurts to think about them. He knows he doesn't deserve to think about them. He has no right to them.

He has no right to anything, after how he failed everybody. A voice in his head,one that sounds like an odd mix of Maul and Anakin and every Jedi he'd failed, whispers, _you have no right to live._

And maybe he doesn't, but he has a duty. He was a soldier, once. He understands duty.

Still, everything hurts. He hadn't meditated in months, the desolate thrum of the Force too harsh a reminder of his failure. 

Then, Beru tells him a poem. It goes like this.

_"I float on a sea of shadows, alone,_

_and the sky is void of light._

_You lived like a star, full of love and warmth,_

_and_ _like a bright star, you died._

_A supernova, all that was nearby,_

_you destroyed, and stole the lights from the sky_

_I wonder where you took the sun, the moon, and the stars,_

_and if I can follow them, and you, into the dark."_

She says it's about a man mourning his lost love, written by some famous Alderaanian poet. It scares Ben how close it hits. It scares Ben even more when he realizes how close to the Dark he had been.

Beru refills his tea and Ben nods his thanks. He knows he has to change his path, now, if he wanted to defeat the Sith. 

Outside the homestead, Luke can be heard laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, there's no way Ben isn't seriously fucked up.


	3. we were made out of lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightning is born violently, lives violently, and dies violently.
> 
> It's never made to be. It's made to burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from We Were Made Out Of Lightning, by Right Away, Great Captain!

Hevy didn't take prisoners. He went out with a fiery vengeance.

For Cutup. Droidbait. O'Niner. All of his brothers. For himself.

Hevy flipped a switch, and died like he lived. Violently, and with a taste for explosives.

* * *

Another defect. Dissapointed, the Kaminoan sent the fetus to the Incineration Department. So far, this first batch had little worth.

Maybe something was wrong with template? No, the bounty hunter was a fine specimen.

On second thought, he recalled the batch. Maybe they would just have to let them grow for now and check where it went wrong later.

* * *

It's the moments between battles Gree finds most unsettling. It's not that he doesn't like peace. But he's a clone. They don't do peace.

They were bred for war.

He hears his brothers laugh, and he laughs with them. He might find it unsettling, however, if a brief respite is what his brothers need to regain their morale, they'll get it.

But Gree himself wouldn't be able to live like this. It makes him wonder what he'd do after the war. What any of them would do.

Clones were people and he has no doubt some clones would like to live in peace. But they were not made for that.

Even without ever seeing combat their life-expectancy was short. They were all trained soldiers, taught to fight from the moment they got out of their pods.

Clones were made to fight. Nothing more, and nothing less.

* * *

Hardcase didn't want to die.

He didn't want to die on an enemy craft, above the shadowy hellhole that was Umbara. He didn't want to die because their general was a piece of shit who didn't give a damn about the men under his command. He definitely didn't want to kill himself.

If anyone asked, he wanted to live, always. But, if anyone asked, he wanted his brothers to live even more.

Hardcase didn't want to die. But he found he had to.

At least he'd go out with a bang. The explosion better look glorious.

* * *

On the transport of off Umbara, Fives talks. Or rather, he echoes.

"Like lightning, we burn

and crash, our lives brief, battle

the only constant."

Jesse raised an eyebrow and glances at him. "I'd never have taken you for a poet, Fives. That was good." And it was, and it wasn't. Good felt insufficient for such an apt description. Still, the other brothers on the ship nodded their approval.

Fives huffs out a laugh. "I didn't write it. Echo did, after our first mission."

The Captain looks over at Fives and inclines his head in solidarity. He remembers Rishi Moon.

O'Niner. Droidbait. Cutup. Hevy.

Ninety-Nine.

Echo. 

Hardcase.

Waxer.

Fives wonders when he'll join that list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The creation of the clones is one of the biggest tragedies in SW, in my eyes. Millions of people, made to fight and die and not even win just so one guy could play intergalactic chess with himself.
> 
> Sheev is such a dick.


	4. isn't that what love's about? (i will have myself behind you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You love them so fiercely. You've watched them make their first steps and hope you'll never have to see their last.
> 
> You should tell them, as often as possible, because you would give everything up for them, and one of these days you just might have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Weary by Mal Blum

Shmi doesn't let him go.

She lets him leave, yes. Her son is smiling brightly, so bright, because _he's free now, mom!_ and she can't find it in her to be sad because of that. After all, _he's_ free now. That's what matters. So when her little Ani asks her if they will see each other again, she asks him what he thinks (rather, she asks him what his heart says, but what Anakin thinks and what his heart says are often the same thing).

Anakin says yes, they will see each other again. Shmi says that that than will be what happens.

Truth is, she doesn't know if it will happen. The desert doesn't whisper premonitions to her like it does to her child. And however much she wishes for it to happen, she knows that even if she had certainty it wouldn't she would let him leave if he wanted to. She would let him be free. If it made him happy, anything. She would've done anything, except stop loving him, because she was sure she was unable to.

So no, she doesn't let him go. But she does let him leave, with the Core-worlders on their fancy ship. She stays behind with a chip set to detonate underneath her skin and invisible shackles around her wrists.

Then she meets Cliegg Lars. He's a kind enough man, if a little gruff. She wouldn't say she loved him, but she thought she might be able to, with time.

So when she meets Cliegg Lars, and he makes her an offer she would be stupid to refuse, she doesn't refuse. He frees her and they get married. She thinks, 'I wish Anakin were here' throughout the whole experience.

Cliegg has a son and a future daughter-in-law living on his farm. Shmi wonders if Anakin would like them. Probably not, considering they thought podracing was barbaric.

Shmi sets a table for four, and wonders if it might someday be five. She sees Cliegg smile at her, and wonders if he's thinking of the same, yet completely different thing.

Shmi hears of Cliegg that another vaporater is busted. She sets to fixing it and, knows her son could do it so much faster.

Shmi gets kidnapped by Tusken raiders.

She doesn't remember much of the following weeks, except _pain, thirst, hunger, Ani, fear, Ani, my Ani, please, someone, just let me see him one last time-_

And then she does.

He's older, of course. A braid hangs over his shoulder and the rest of his hair is cut short. Brown robes hang over his much-grown frame. He's tall, Shmi thinks. _He's here,_ Shmi dreams. Is it a dream? "Ani?" she asks. "Ani, is that you?" He's so grown up now. Her little boy is a man now. "My grown up son," she says.

Vaguely, she can hear her son ask, beg, for her to stay, but it's okay now. She tries to tell him that. He looks so handsome. She tells him that. 

She feels complete now, but there's one more thing. One last thing.

"Ani- I- I love..." her throat hurts. It's so dry. 

"I love..." Parched. She needs to tell him. She knows she won't make it.

"I love..." She exhales her last breath. She hopes he knows.

She hopes he knows she never let him go.

* * *

There are stormtroopers at the door.

Owen lets them in, because there's little else he can do when they hold him at gunpoint. Beru offers them tea, because his wife is a good woman who doesn't forget her manners. And if the tea is slightly too salty, well, that's just how she likes her tea, sir.

Not that any of them beside the officer cares for a drink. One of them goes to sniff around the homestead on his own. Rude.

"We're looking for these droids," the officer said. He took his helmet of so Owen can see his hard eyes and knows he's a killer. "Any idea where they might be? They carry dangerous rebel intelligence and anyone found harboring them is an enemy to the Empire."

And Owen doesn't want any trouble with the Empire. Owen just wants to live on his farm, with his wife and nephew, in peace. He doesn't want that old hermit to put Luke in the line of fire, Jedi or not. He doesn't want Luke's own adventurous spirit make him sign up for the Imperial Navy. He just wants to live in peace with his family.

And he would. He would turn those droids over in a heartbeat. But Luke wouldn't, and therein lies the problem.

Because the droids are, probably, with Luke.

"Can't say I have. Did you check with the Jawa's? They pick up anything that's made of metal." Beru surreptitiously shakes his head at him, and he mentally scolds himself for that stupid mistake.

"We did," the officer smiles unkindly, "they said they sold them to an old man named Lars and a kid." The trooper that had wandered off returns. There's a datapad in his hand, showing a picture of Beru, Luke, and him, after buying a new landspeeder. "Who's the kid, Mr. Lars? Your son? He like droids?" The officer leans forward. "Where is he?"

Owen swallows. He doesn't _know_ where Luke is, and that slightly worries him. Because he _suspects_ he knows where Luke is. Kenobi better not get him in any trouble. Not that he's one to talk, he adds wrily.

Before the troopers begin to find his silence suspect, Beru speaks up. "Luke's our nephew. He's in Tosche Station at the moment, picking up some power-converters."

The oficer hums, turns to look out the window. "Check if there's a speeder anywhere nearby," he orders two others. They leave. Beru catches his eyes and nods at the door. There's a clear path to freedom, now.

Owen knows it's their only shot. He doubts the stormtroopers will let them live. They run.

Owen was right. As the first laser zings through the air, he finds himself hoping Luke is safe. He hopes Beru and he didn't tell the Empire anything they could use against his nephew. He hopes Luke will be careful, when he eventually goes out to fight whichever evil he meets. He hopes he won't forget about the people who raised him.

He hopes that, even though they never said it, even though they're not related by blood, Luke knows his aunt and uncle loved him like a son.

* * *

"It's too late."

It hurts more than Han cares to admit to hear his son say that. In that little sentence he hears a million things.

_It's too late. You've failed me too much._

_It's too late. You abandoned me._

_It's too late. Why would I return when you were such a terrible father?_

It hurts. But he's wrong. He has to be.

(Han doesn't hear the regret, the guilt, in Ben's voice because it's being drowned out by the waves of shame that rise and fall in his own chest with every heartbeat, every anguished look that passes his son's face.)

So Han says, "No, it's not. Leave here with me, come home. We miss you." And it's nothing but the truth. He can see Ben struggle, see the conflict on his son's face. He's being torn apart, Ben admits. He wants to be free of this pain, he says. He doesn't know if he's strong enough to do what must be done.

And then he asks his father for help. "Yes, anything." And that, too, is nothing but the truth.

Ben takes his lightsaber from his belt, offers it to Han. Starlight falls on them through the opening, bathing the walkway in light. Han reaches out.

Outside, the star dies, drowning the room in shadows. Ben doesn't let go.

Han looks up. His sons face is covered in red light and shadows, his face alternating between a blank mask, anguish, and sadness. Ben doesn't let go. Neither does Han.

He braces himself for the worst. He still doesn't run.

A blood-red blade bursts forth from the hilt piercing Han through his chest. He gasps for air, and _it hurts it hurts it hurts Ben why-_

But he sees Ben's face - _his son's face -_ and reaches up a hand, cupping the chin of the boy he made, the life he created, the child he abandoned everytime he flew away into space. The responsibility he shoved onto Luke when he dropped him off at his academy. Han tries to talk and finds he can't.

 _I'm sorry,_ he thinks, as he starts to sway. Ben nudges him lightly.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, as he starts to fall. He hopes Ben knows.

Force, he hopes Ben knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know much about Han and Leia's canon parenting, but it can't have been that great considering they hadn't seen ech other in ages in TFA.


	5. and no one will find the things we left behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is temporary, and being remembered is not guaranteed.
> 
> The footsteps you find sometimes only work to prove someone was there before you. Who, you might never know.  
> As for the footsteps you leave behind, that is up to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Archive by Mal Blum.

There are footsteps in the mud.

The soldier, dressed in what little armor is given to the Imperial grunts, stops and considers them.

He was born on a small planet in the Outer Rim, where his parents owned a small, local library.

"Boy," they'd say, "one day, when we're all dust, this building and its books and datapads will still be standing. And within those words people will find our history, and our fathers' history, and their fathers' history.

"That's the beauty of the archive, kid. Preservation of the past."

He hadn't understood it, back then. His mother gave him a journal on his tenth birthday and he used it to doodle warships and battlefields.

Now, the soldier can hear others yelling, screaming, dying around him. But there lies a datastick in one of the footsteps. It's broken. Someone stomped on it, maybe on purpose. He wonders why.

His parents' library went up in smoke, literally, when pirates docked at their town's port and had a shootout with the local law enforcement. His parents were still inside. The soldier, a young man back then, joined the Imperial Army in hopes of finding them. He never did.

Instead, he wound up here, fighting peasants with rusty blasters.

"Look out!" someone yells. A flash of red light, searing hot pain. A hole in his chest.

Briefly, he wonders if anyone would see his body and think, why? Who was he?

He knows with certainty no one would _know._ He never wrote a journal. His parents would be disappointed.

Darkness.

* * *

A rebel sits in his room in the Yavin base. He's surrounded by datapads, which he is all searching relentlessly. Whenever he finds something he needs, he sends it to another pad. He's gathering the relevant data, and putting it all in one file.

 _-poetry on Alderaan often has the following-_ Send.

 _-Alderaanian court Culture is surprisingly informal. Royalty-_ Send.

 _-Likewise, the cuisine on Alderaan excels in-_ Send.

Maybe some would think that he is doing this for the princess. Others, who knew he what his homeplanet was, would think he is doing it for himself.

And they wouldn't be wrong. But neither would they be completely right.

He had a thought, sometime after he first heard of his home's destruction. Imagine you wake up one day, and realize an entire _planet_ had just disappeared. Its culture, its people, all gone.

And furthermore, you couldn't find a single trace of it ever having existed.

Maybe it was stupid of him. He knows other databases exist, much more accurate and professional ones. The Galactic Encyclopaedia, The Alderaanian Archive, and more.

But he was afraid. What if something happened to those? What if the Empire destroyed them? What if, one day, he'd wake up and people would look at him as if he were a mythic creature when he told them he came from Alderaan?

What if people forgot? What if _he_ forgot?

That scared him most of all. So now he is collecting anything related to Alderaan, neatly filing it all away.

Softly, he starts to hum a song from his childhood. If he listens well, he can almost hear his mother sing along.

The only other sound is that of fingers, typing away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, the destruction of an entire planet is kind of glossed over in the movies.


End file.
